


minor ruins

by sparksandsalt



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (fairly platonically), (it's the wall scene from the middle school flashback), Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Freeform, Gen, Hands, Hirugami-centric, Holding Hands, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24797626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksandsalt/pseuds/sparksandsalt
Summary: Sachirou turns his wrist, so his hand--for coaxing large dogs by way of scratches at the scruff of the neck, for finely adjusting the focus knobs of microscopes, forthis--rests palm-side down against the steady, easy pulse at Kourai’s neck.The condition of Sachirou Hirugami's hands, years later.
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou & Hoshiumi Kourai, Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai
Comments: 20
Kudos: 157





	minor ruins

**Author's Note:**

> Some swearing, drinking, and references to self-harm (the stone wall scene in Ch. 351) --but otherwise G-rated

These days, until he happens to make a fist, the scars across Sachirou’s knuckles are nearly invisible. Only when bone stretches the skin translucent does he notice the ridges running from index finger to pinky; it’s subtle, and far less prominent than the calluses on the insides of his hands from a dozen years of predicting trajectories and smashing them against volleyballs.

“I used to play volleyball in high school,” he explains to his university labmates as they pause over the minor ruins of his hands. They take him in again--his stature, his steady posture, his composure under pressure--and Sachirou watches their estimation of him shift in their eyes.

“Was your team strong?” they ask, wincing sympathetically at his palms and fingertips.

Sachirou pulls on blue nitrile gloves to shelter them from any further inspection, and smiles. “A couple of my ex-teammates play professionally now, so I suppose so.”

 _There,_ while his hand wraps around a pencil, or a pair of chopsticks, or the handle of a beer mug; flashes, each time Sachirou strokes the fur behind Kotarou’s ears. Permanent, but unobtrusive. Sachirou is certain that the scars would escape attention entirely if no one knew to look for them.

Kourai knows to look for them.

Before Kourai, once upon a time, there were Shouko and Fukurou, who would look with empathy at the aching tremble of his fingers and sit him at the best-lit corner of their dining room table. They would rest his hands on their lap--Shouko would jiggle her foot unconcernedly, while Fukurou, his hands so large that he had no choice but to be careful, would not--and unspool a stretch from the miles of medical tape shared between father and mother and daughter and sons.

In the way other families cooked dinners together, or sat in the living room to watch a movie every Saturday night: in the Hirugami household, the family pastime was gently tending to volleyball injuries.

“That’s pretty messed up,” Kourai said once while he dug through a sports kit for tape. “Tending to your wounds as a family--that sounds like the kind of shit that goes on in the warrior clan of a shounen manga!”

“They’re not ‘wounds’, and most of it is preventative,” Sachirou replied.

“I think Shouko-san would be a cool shounen manga protagonist though, like with a big scar and a sword,” Kourai said.

Sachirou wasn’t inattentive in his hand maintenance--he’d read enough books during middle school on proper taping methods and injury prevention, after all--but he’d accepted Kourai’s offer to tape his fingers once while at Yurisei, then twice, then allowed it to become a routine into high school. Kourai would not sit him at a dining room table, or rest Sachirou’s hands on his lap; instead, the two of them would stake out a corner of the gymnasium floor, cross-legged and knee-to-knee, while Kourai bent over Sachirou’s hands.

Like with all volleyball-related minutiae, Kourai wound tape with a proficient, uncomplaining care.

Left hand first, then right, as Kourai chatted away about schoolwork or practice drills or the outrageous thing Akitomo had said to him that morning over breakfast. Sachirou made the requisite noises of agreement or disapproval. If Kourai had more to discuss, he’d proceed to taping his own fingers while Sachirou dug in his duffel for his nail file, listening to Kourai all the while.

“Your little ritual together is pretty cute,” Gao remarked once as he trundled a cart full of volleyballs past them. Sachirou is certain he had meant it to sound derisive, but Kourai only blinked and said, “Your hand care routine is pretty shitty from what I’ve seen, do you need me to teach you how to tape your fingers properly?”

Sachirou sat, absently filing his nails, as he goaded Kourai and Gao from the sidelines until the whole team was involved. Later, the third years scolded all three of them.

These days, Sachirou has no need for athletic tape or nail files. There are no more volleyballs to thwart: only furry or feathered bodies to soothe, or small silver instruments to manipulate with care.

 _Thank goodness,_ Sachirou catches himself thinking, especially on his most difficult days. He runs a finger over his knuckles. Even when he fumbles during a lab practical, or a slightly wrong movement makes a cat flinch in pain—he has never again, not even once, felt the urge to scourge his hands again.

The calluses on Sachirou’s hands begin to soften and fade, while those on Kourai’s hands grow tougher. There are fewer opportunities for Sachirou to compare the extent.

But sometimes—between study groups and Adlers matches, clinical rotations and national team training camps—Kourai and Sachirou manage to fit together the jagged edges of their schedules for a drink. Kourai, ever competitive, forces himself to match Sachirou’s pace. Sachirou relents and lets him.

Despite Kourai’s core philosophies, in the realm of alcohol, twenty centimeters and twenty kilograms cannot be overcome by determination, or even excellent metabolism.

Hands return to hands then, and Sachirou takes the opportunity to enjoy the sensation he had once taken for granted. In the corner of an izakaya, Kourai pores over Sachirou’s hands in his (left hand first, then right), then pointedly stares at the knuckles.

“You don’t have to worry,” Sachirou says lightly. “I wouldn’t. I won’t.”

“Good!” Kourai declares, and unceremoniously drops Sachirou’s hand onto the table. “‘Cause you’ll still be needing those. Let me know if they need taping again.”

Sachirou laughs. “Kourai-kun, I don’t play volleyball anymore.”

Kourai makes a woozy, haphazard gesture over the plates and glasses between them. “But. Ergonomically! I saw your brother signing autographs once, and his _giant spider hands_ made the pen look like a toothpick! Just looking at him made my hands cramp up. And now all you do is write with pens that are too small for you, and hold little kitten paws, and…” Kourai trails off for a moment, struggling to free an edamame from its pod. “There are things other than volleyball that can make your hands hurt.”

“Yes, the world is difficult for those of us cursed with giant bodies,” Sachirou replies.

Kourai flings the empty edamame shell at him.

The fresh air outside sobers Kourai a bit, but Sachirou still finds himself guiding Kourai by the elbow and shoulder to avoid collisions with light poles. He plants a palm flat against Kourai’s shoulder blades to push him past the threshold of his apartment—firm, because Kourai is ticklish at the best of times, and Sachirou does not want to rouse his neighbors at 1 am with Kourai’s squawking laughter—and deposits him on the sofa.

“Here,” Sachirou says as he offers him a spare toothbrush set and points at the kitchen sink. Kourai dutifully obeys because, even tipsy, his dedication to personal maintenance is impressive even for a professional athlete. As Sachirou showers and brushes his teeth, he can hear Kourai wandering his apartment for face towels and bedding.

When Sachirou emerges from the bathroom, he finds Kourai face-down in his bed. A pair of jeans and a t-shirt are folded neatly on Sachirou’s desk chair; Sachirou notices that Kourai has somehow unearthed his smallest sweatshirt, still huge on Kourai, to wear as pajamas without permission.

Sachirou sighs and says, “Kourai-kun, I won’t kiss you when you’re drunk.”

“‘M not drunk, but ‘s okay,” Kourai mumbles into Sachirou’s pillow. “I just wanna sleep, ‘n the sofa’s bad for my back.”

Sachirou rolls Kourai off his pillow with his foot, and crawls into the warmed, newly vacated space. Kourai makes a complaining noise but does not retaliate; he’s betrayed his daily routine for Sachirou today, and now he’s hours behind on his sleep schedule.

Gravity pulls them both toward the dip at the center of the mattress, and before long, Kourai is smashed against the length of Sachirou’s arm. Sachirou sighs again.

“This can’t possibly be better for your back than the couch,” Sachirou says softly over his shoulder. He sets a palm against the center of Kourai’s chest to push him away again. The heartbeat he finds, warm beneath the cotton, is slow and even.

Kourai blinks blearily at him through the darkness, then exhales a breath that smells like Sachirou’s toothpaste. He shifts, mattress springs squeaking with the movement, and draws up a hand to press against Sachirou’s. 

Not at a dining room table, or the corner of a gymnasium floor, or even an izakaya illuminated by pale yellow lamps—but still knee-to-knee, with Kourai bowed so close that all it would take is a tilt of Sachirou’s head to bury his face in Kourai’s hair.

He feels a callus-roughened thumb run over his knuckles. Scar ridges, invisible to eyes under fluorescent lights, become apparent to fingers in the dark. Kourai wraps his fingers around Sachirou’s wrist, then pulls it into the hollow of his neck. There is something vulnerable about the warmth there.

Sachirou isn’t certain how to reciprocate, or even if he has to, but he tries.

“It looked worse than it felt,” Sachirou says, near-whisper. “I don’t even remember it hurting.”

“How?” Kourai asks. Sachirou wonders how many others have heard Kourai’s voice, so well-suited for laughter and shouting across gymnasiums, this quiet.

After a few moments of silence, Sachirou slowly confesses, “It felt more like relief than pain, until you came along.” It’s the first time he’s spoken aloud about it, even to Kourai.

Sachirou cannot make out his face in the darkness, but the fingers around Sachirou’s hand tighten. “Can’t say I like _that_ answer, Sachirou.”

Sachirou turns his wrist, so his hand--for coaxing large dogs by way of scratches at the scruff of the neck, for finely adjusting the focus knobs of microscopes, for _this_ \--rests palm-side down against the steady, easy pulse at Kourai’s neck. He runs his thumb over the corner of Kourai’s jaw. He is glad that the pads of his fingers are softer now. “Then, my tolerance for pain has always been quite high.”

Kourai chuckles at that. “Why does everything you say sound like the edgy character in a shounen manga?”

“I think you just read too much manga, Kourai-kun.”

Kourai settles a bit, drifting; Sachirou can sense by the pattern of his breathing that he’s slipped into sleep. His hand is caught now, by the smaller one around his wrist, and the weight of Kourai’s head. It will certainly ache when he wakes up.

Sachirou closes his eyes, and tips his head forward. He rests his forehead against the whorl of Kourai’s hair.

He’ll ask Kourai to take care of it in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> -Find me on Twitter [@sparksandsalt](https://twitter.com/sparksandsalt)!  
> -Ok I haven’t touched this fic since September and had no plans to do so, but we found out Hirugami’s dog’s name and I felt obligated to change it  
> -I feel like despite Hoshiumi's chaotic energy, HiruHoshi has high tenderness potential... I cherish them independently, and their characters become even more meaningful in the context of each other....  
> -I am convinced that 23 y/o Hoshiumi Kourai goes to bed at 10 pm every night  
> -This is meant to be like... pre-relationship, but they kiss sometimes.... the love is there, it just isn't named yet, or something like that.....  
> -I wanted to finish something short and non-food-related before I try writing OsaAka (which is inescapably food-related lmao) and start my next work project (which is also food-related)


End file.
